


Enough

by static_abyss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time ago, someone told Dean to keep smiling until it was real. What they never said was that it didn't get easier. No matter how much Dean smiles, it never stops feeling fake, never stops feeling like work, making himself happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!

These are the things Dean remembers:

When he was eight years old, he burned the spaghettios he was cooking, and even though Sam wouldn't have known the difference, Dean went out to buy a new batch anyway. When he was ten, he learned to shoot a gun, and when he was eleven, he killed his first monster. When Dean was sixteen, he punched a kid in the face for talking bad about his dad, even though Dean hadn't seen his dad in weeks. When Sam was thirteen, he wanted to be a doctor. When Dean was eighteen, he wanted to live long enough to see Sam's kids. 

The memories are fuzzy, some of them more like passing thoughts, and others fading away when Dean tries to remember details. They swirl through his thoughts constantly, when he's fighting monsters, or when Sam looks particularly sad. Dean folds them around himself on days when his smile is too forced, and he feels out of place in his skin. On those days, all he has to think is, _spaghettios_ , and the smile on his face hurts less, and the pain in the center of his chest eases back into a dull throb. 

The pain today is different, physical and familiar. He curls up on the floor of the bunker, exhausted now that the fight with the Darkness is over, and he and Sam are safe.

"You okay, Dean?" Sam asks.

Dean thinks, _doctor_ , and the world rushes back in all at once. He hisses as pain shoots through his wrist, black and blue bruising already crawling up from his wrist to his palm. 

"Peachy," Dean says, through gritted teeth. "Just peachy."

But he makes sure to grin anyway when Sam looks his way. 

"Can't hurt that bad if you're still smiling," Sam says.

"Google earth, Sammy," Dean tells him. "Google earth."

Sam rolls his eyes, but takes Dean's hand gently between his own. He inhales sharply and shakes his head in sympathy.

"We have to set it," Sam says, glancing behind Dean. "But we don't have anything here. I'd have to go out and get supplies."

Dean almost tells him to go, until he notices the way Sam keeps staring over Dean's shoulder. When Dean turns he's not surprised to see Castiel leaning against the doorframe, his eyes on the floor, hair running in all different directions. Cas looks tired, his shoulders hunched more than usual, and the beginnings of stubble on his jaw.

"It's fine," Dean says without looking away from Castiel. "We're fine."

  
  
  
  


These are the things that happened:

Dean's mother died, and then his father died, then Ellen, and Jo, Ash, Bobby, Benny. And then Dean made it so that it was only him and Sam, and nobody else mattered. There was the beginning of the apocalypse, and Dean died. An angel fell from heaven and fought his way through hell to save Dean. There was hell and purgatory, and Sam was in the cage, and then he wasn't. Castiel was an angel, and then he wasn't. Dean was a demon, and then he wasn't.

Nothing makes sense in the real world, where Dean has died so many times he isn't even sure he knows what death means. Here, with Castiel human and defeated, everything is too big, too incomprehensibly large that sometimes Dean feels like drowning. He prefers his memories, vague and fading as they are.

"You'll be fine," Dean says, to Castiel, to himself, to his aching wrist. 

Castiel doesn't move from where he's leaning against the doorframe. 

"Being human isn't that bad," Dean says, from the floor.

He's sitting in front of the wooden table where he and Sam do their research. His back is against one of the chairs, legs out in front, as he looks over Castiel. Sam left a while ago, long enough ago that Dean doesn't have to worry that his smile might be too forced.

"Hey," Dean says, when Castiel continues standing by the door. "Cas, man, come on. It's not that bad."

Castiel looks up at that, dark hair a mess, his blue eyes hard and angry. He exhales hard through his nose, and laughs, desperate and disbelieving.

"And what," Castiel says, disgustedly. "Is _not so bad_ about everything that's happened, Dean? Was Metatron not so bad? Was heaven falling apart _not so bad_?"

Dean lifts his hands up to try to calm Castiel, but the movement sends a jolt of pain through his wrist. He gasps, biting down on his lip to distract him from the pain.

"What's wrong?" Castiel asks.

He's finally moving, concern winning over his annoyance as he kneels down next to Dean. The t-shirt Sam leant Castiel is actually Dean's, Dean notices now that he can see it properly. The jeans are also Dean's.

"That's my shirt," Dean says, waits for Castiel to roll his eyes, then, "But if you're asking about my wrist, I might have broken it."

Castiel reaches out instinctively, two fingers barely touching Dean's wrist, before he snatches his hand back. He laughs again when Dean meets his eyes.

"Forgive me," Castiel says. "I keep forgetting I'm useless now."

Dean sighs and leans his head back against his chair. He lays his left hand on top of his thigh, and manages to keep back the little moan of pain.

"You keep talking like that, I'm going to start believing _I'm_ useless," Dean says.

He's only half kidding, but Castiel knows that. The moment Castiel's hand wrapped around Dean's shoulder in hell, Castiel knew everything.

"Your wrist," Castiel says, his tone light, but Dean knows better than to think Castiel will let their previous conversation go. "Is there anything I can do?"

Dean shrugs. "Nothing we can do 'till Sam gets back."

They sit together in silence, legs stretched out in front of them. Castiel is warm against Dean's side, and Dean is still not used to how much Cas _hasn't_ changed. Dean keeps thinking there should be something obviously different now that Cas is human. But Castiel still holds himself as though he's carrying something heavy on his back. His voice still has the same rasp, his sentences still too correct sometimes. 

"You're not useless," Dean says, into their silence.

Castiel tilts his head to look at Dean. There are bags under Castiel's eyes, and the lines around his eyes are more pronounced. But Dean can't remember if that's the way Castiel has always looked, or if it's something inherent to the human Castiel is now.

"We have a lot of things in common, you and I," Castiel says, smiling enough that Dean relaxes against him. 

"Oh yeah?" Dean asks, closing his eyes, and settling more comfortably against Castiel. "Like what?"

Castiel pauses as though he has to think about what he's going to say. "We both believe ourselves to be worth much less than we are," he says, finally.

Dean's breath catches in his throat, and he doesn't force out the laugh like he would if he were talking to Sam. Castiel wouldn't believe him anyway.

"Are we?" he asks, instead, his eyes still closed. 

Castiel's pause is too long this time, and when Dean opens his eyes, Castiel's hunched over himself again. His eyes have that far away, vacant look from before, and Dean knows how that is. He can almost hear the words in his head, the wisps of memories attached to each one, and he feels the way his entire body goes loose. He's grinning now, happiness an automatic response to the memories. The memories an automatic response to the desperation that will eat away at him if Dean lets it.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says.

Castiel hears the change in Dean's tone. He looks up, the frown on his face tinged with annoyance. "What?" he asks.

"Saving heaven was a stupid idea," Dean says. "It was too big. You gotta start smaller than that. Work your way up to it."

"What?" Castiel asks, trying to hold back his smile. "Like saving the world first?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Something like that."

  
  
  
  


These are the secrets Dean keeps:

A long time ago, someone told him to keep smiling until it was real. What they never said was that it didn't get easier. No matter how much Dean smiles, it never stops feeling fake, never stops feeling like work, making himself happy. He never stops needing memories to bring him back, to ease the hollowness in his chest. He never stops worrying about Sam, or needing Castiel to _just be there_ , because Castiel is the one person who actually knows Dean's secrets. 

It gets to be too much without them there to punch him in the shoulder, or to roll their eyes at him. He feels whole when they're there. He feels better now that Sam is walking into the bunker, and Castiel is moving Dean's hand over to his lap.

"Hey Dean," Sam calls as he makes his way down the stairs. "How do you feel about purple?"

"Hate it," Dean says.

"Good," Sam says, coming around the table, with a plastic bag. "Because I brought you a purple sling."

"It's not broken," Castiel says.

Sam glances at Dean's hand in Castiel's lap, then back at Castiel. "You sure?" he asks. 

Castiel tugs on Dean's hand, and Dean barely holds back his yell. 

"See," Castiel says innocently, holding his hand out for Sam's bag. "Not broken."

Dean glares at him. Sam laughs, and Dean glares at him too. The three of them are laughing, and Castiel's hand is warm on Dean's. It hurts to laugh, the way it hurts to just _be_ sometimes. But Sam is there and Cas is there, and there's at least one person in the world who knows Dean's secrets.

Most days, that's enough.


End file.
